In Okinawa, there is an image called Nirai Kanai – the idea that the land of the dead (Gusō) lies somewhere beyond the sea.
But if you keep extending your gaze straight out over the water with a modern sense of the world, your line of sight would circle the earth and eventually return quietly to your back. Then the land of the dead is no longer a distant place, but a presence that can’t be pinned down anywhere – something that slips through your fingers as soon as you try to hold on to it.
On this album, the noise of guitar and bass is played like waves that keep coming in and going out.
Within that swell, the voices of birds and the sound of the wind rise up, sometimes, almost always – not as a simple document of a landscape, but as a “trace” that weaves its way through the waves and comes a little closer.
And then the roar of fighter jets, insisting on their own existence, pulls the ear back into the real world.
Waiting Between the Wave and the Body is a work that lets the traces of the dead, and of living creatures, slowly creep in between the wave of noise and the body that listens.